Revelations and Craving
by tasha.vick
Summary: Sherlock makes a mistake. Deductions are made. Words are more powerful, as it would appear, when uttered by the right person. Johnlock!fic


''John, are you going to tell me what the problem is, or are you going to spend the entirety of our case sulking in your chair pretending to read that wretched book?''

John purposefully stood up, slammed the book in question on the table, and stalked off in the direction of the kitchen from where Sherlock could hear angry movements of the man putting the kettle on.

Sherlock supposed he could always deduce what the problem was, but their current case was too overwhelming. And besides, he knew John disliked it when he pried into his cerebral workings uninvited. And yet, there was no way in which he could get the somewhat...hurt...expression on his flatmate's face out of his head. He began listing things he had done since he woke up. Well, since John woke up, anyway, Sherlock himself hadn't gotten more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep during the case.

John had greeted him at 7 am, on his way to the kitchen. Sherlock watched him perform the morning ritual of tosting bread, smearing jam on two slices and pouring himself a cuppa. He'd offered one to Sherlock , even though he knew Sherlock would just wave him off. John then inevitably frowned uneasily, which usually meant he was afraid once more that this whole ''It's all transport'' thing was going to be more than detrimental to Sherlock's health.

Then, the former army man sat down and ate his breakfast whilst reading his newspaper. Occasionally, he would read out a segment or two to Sherlock who would then make a remark about how the grammar and/or facts need checking thrice before publication. These were all perfectly normal things to have happen on any given day at 221b Baker Street.

Sherlock's confused frown deepened upon further examination of facts. Was it something that happened after they'd gotten the call from Lestrade about the new leads in their case? He remembers jumping up and grabbing his coat promptly off the back of his chair where it was draped the previous night before running out the door to flag a cab.

John was left behind to hurry and catch up as always and..._Oh!_ He remembered. He sprung from his seat and turned around on the balls of his feet once more to clear that particular memory. Yes...but...how would it be a problem, surely John knows that...Ah...of course. Sentiment. He'd come to forget, for so many reasons, that his doctor was different. That not all the slings and arrows of bullies bounce off him as easily as Donovan's ''freak'' slid off Sherlock's back.

He sat back down, perplexed. But, that meant it was him. It was him who'd hurt John. Unintentionally, but still. The knowledge caused a strange ache to form in his chest, and he knew he was being ridiculous for even entertaining the thought of crying, and just as he'd thought it, his eyes were attacked by an unquenchable burning sensation and his vision blurred.

This man had affected him to such an extent he couldn't control these...these blasted emotions! Weren't they the one reason he shied away from human contact, finding any other people mostly too idiotic and pointless to use your heart, if he was to use that particular word, on them. But John...John was different. In so many ways.

If John was hurt, so was Sherlock. His pulse would echo in his throat if there was so much as a nick on the older man's cheek from an altercation with one of the villains that crossed their path. Sweat broke over his brow any time John didn't come home when he said he would. He would counter the need to send out worried texts. Because it would make John think he was getting too attached. He would leave. Isn't that what people do? Leave? Mummy and Father left. Mycroft was never really there. Not when it mattered, anyway.

He was so confused that he'd forgotten to control his outward actions. His head lulled slightly from side to side and his eyes were wide with thinking, overthinking and thinking some more. His heart pounded in his chest.

Suddenly, he jumped to his feet once again and hurried to the kitchen, his gait as cat-like and silent as ever. He observed John's form, turned away from him,gripping the edge of the sink for support. His knuckles had turned white from the strength of the grasp he had on the surface. Sherlock swallowed an inexplicable lump in his throat. Silently, he approached his friend, worried he might turn and walk away at any minute.

When he reached the older man, he debated what his next move should be. So, without thinking – a true feat for any of the member of the Holmes family – he brough his hands up to the shoulders of the other man and squeezed affectionately.

''John...I...''

He felt the doctor tense under his grip, and yet Sherlock decided to leave his hands just where they were. If this was to be their final form of contact, he'd rather have it last for as long as possible. He ventured a little further into a teritory most unknown to him and slid his palms down John's arms, taking in the small shiver which ran down the other's body as he did so.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

''I'm sorry. I forget. That you're not...me. And I thank the heavens, or whatever entity you'd normally thank that it is so.''

As he spoke, he edged closer to the smaller man in front of him. His arms continued to warm what felt like a freezing John Watson, their bodies now almost completely fused together. He's in some kind of shock, thought Sherlock absently, before he continued.

''It was an impulse. I work a case and I...well...I was an idiot.''

Finally, John spoke.

''Yes, you were, you complete arse-hole.''

''I didn't think you would mind, I suppose. ''

John let out what sounded like a defeated sigh.

''I don't mind. It's silly. Except when it comes from you, you know. That one hurts. I've been struggling with my height since forever. I know I'm not the tallest of men, but...I never understood why everyone found it such a problem, or a laughing matter. And I didn't care. or at least, tried not to. Except, when I heard you said it. It just...hurt.''

''I know. But...why does my opinion, the opinion of a self-proclaimed sociopath matter to you so much? You had every right to knock me out right then and there.''

''Because you're not...everyone else. And for some godforesaken reason, I crave your approval. Always have, always will.''

Sherlock shook his head at the words. John needed _his _approval? He almost laughed at the absurdity of the statement, as in his mind, it was the other way around, if he was being completely honest with himself. Instead of saying anything else, he decided to soldier on and voice his feelings through physical contact.

His breath was already coming in short, silent pants, as he fought to control himself, and he let the haze in his brain take over. One swift move forward and his chest was flush against John's back, his long arms cocooning the doctor easily. He let his forehead land on John's shoulder. Fortunately, he thought, John didn't move or show any sign of being repelled by the action. Instead, Sherlock felt him relax into the embrace a shaky breath leaving his lungs. Sherlock could hear the doctor's heart going so fast one could mistake it for the flap of a hummingbird's wings. Well, at least that made two of them.

''Sherlock...what are we doing?''

''I don't know.''

''That's the first time I've heard you use those words, I think.''

''Relish the feel, it's not likely to happen any time soon.''

It seemed Sherlock had regained the control of his outstanding wit, and he straightened a little in the embrace, still with his head on John's shoulder, his lips now tantalizingly close to the other man's ear. He lowered his voice to a whisper. A soft, reassuring, sultry whisper.

''I like your size, doctor Watson. You're just perfect. Just right.''

He emphesized his words by moving his hands lower and grasping John's waist. The older man finally let go of the edge and met Sherlock's hands.

''You are muscular, soft and firm in all the right places...and you cope with the demands of running after my pursuits and myself in an extraordinary fashion. Do you see, John, the things you do to me?''

Sherlock had no idea where this bravado came from, but he found himself voicing his deepest thoughts and desires, and furthermore, acting on them.

''Sh...Sherlock?''

Sherlock could feel the doctor unravelling underneath him and enjoyed the fact that his feelings(of which he'd only become fully aware mere minutes prior) were reciprocated.

''Yes, John?''

As he said the words, his hands roamed the expanse of the muscular chest in front of him, over the abs and down, to the man's slender hips, gripping them lightly, as he exerted slight pressure against John's back, pushing them both further against the sink. His hands went to the belt of John's trousers, undoing it and the other buttons swiftly before sliding his warm hand underneath the fabric, gently taking hold of John's firm, hot and hard member.

The sandy-haired man had no words for this, just thrust himself forward, into Sherlock's eager grasp. The man's raven curls brushed John's cheek again as he leaned in to whisper one more thing.

''Now I'm going to make love to you, John.''

John finally turned around, having mustered enough strength to tear himself away from the pleasure of Sherlock's touch. Confusing though the entire situation was, he was sure about one thing, He wanted it so badly. Not men. Just one. This man, right in front of him. His Sherlock. It was never about gender.

Sherlock, on his end, misinterpreted the act as one of rejection and moved a few steps away so as to avoid the angry assault he was expecting from the doctor, his head bent, already imagining his life without John in it.

John's features softened at the sight of fear in Sherlock's eyes so instead of saying aynthing, he simply ate up the distance between them and captured Sherlock's lips in his own. He could tell it was awkward at first, but as the two began getting to know each other's likes and dislikes, it became obvious they were made for this. Kissing, and so much more. Love, thought John, hopefully.

And said as much.

''I love you, Sherlock.''

He looked up at the detective and saw a genuine smile blossoming on the kiss-bruised lips. He didn't even need to say it back for John to know he felt the same. The joy soon reverted back to ferocious desire and his arms were once again full of Sherlock. He grabbed every bit of the man he could, and felt the perfect pair of hands on his cock, once again. He gasped in pleasure and felt his legs hit the kitchen table(free of experiments, fortunately), and almost laughed to himself as he was being hoisted onto the smooth surface, his legs firmly wrapped around his consulting detective.

''Now do you see John? How perfectly you are mine? How wonderfully delicious we will be? How I will _never_ let you go?''

John was mute at the amount of sentiment in the words and nodded, helplessly belonging to the man now standing above him. Sherlock hummed in approval once more, before proceeding to ravish the other man thoroughly, all through the rest of the day and night.


End file.
